How will I be perceived,
after my passing? Will
dissections of my soul
be realized from the…
poetry I leave behind?
Will anyone really care?

Can my experiences… be
defined separately from
Faith’s spiritual Light?
Will I be imagined to be
a fraud, with regard to
the principles of God?

By the time I’m noticed,
by those intentionally
choosing to rightly evaluate
my literary worth, their
opinions are a moot point
to my current existence.

After all, my personal bias
show be evident within my
compositions; perhaps, when
I bowed before my Maker, I’ll
know the real truth of myself.
Before Him, it won’t matter,

since I’m still loved.

It’s in the wind.
The only times I ever feel
Always coincide with some semblance of a
Breakdown
Shakedown.
I think I’m in shaking in my boots
Eventhough it feels like 40 degrees in this shade.
Am I supposed to feel comfort in this
Desensitized sphere?
Cause all I feel is a detachment
From you from me
From the ground, up.
My roots are not existent.
All i want to do
Is burn the **** out
Of my eyes.
I’ve had enough of feeling
Like I’m walking on air
I’ve had enough of feeling
Like I always need to breath.

i have no patience for you your feet sunk in the mud im leaving even if you stay behind.
nosebleed in a public restroom irrational shame,
dark stains on the carpet and we strain with the task of memory.
if your feet hold you back cut them off at the joint.
self-dissections in the lab,
case studies of the effects of
obsolete diseases. black plague typhoid smallpox
specimen pins/surgical staples, an efficient kind of suicide.
ill try not to smudge your lipstick when i kick in your teeth,
your white-knuckled hands digging grooves in your thighs.
efficiency as poetry.
brutality as poetry.
█████ as poetry.
i am trying to make a perfect vacuum of myself, purer than space. purer than black holes.
this is for the dirt ground into my jeans for the rusted nails in my walls , this is for you,
your delusions, your lover impaled on a sundial and you weep to complete the scene,
admire your artistry.
this is how to make feathers look like armor,
this is how to renounce your body,
how to be a living parody how to give up on yourself,
from a vulture to a prince. wren to a gryphon.
the water i drink is infested.
with eggs hatching in my throat i become more than myself,
mother to a thousand maggots.i name them all.i divide my love evenly among them.
here i staple my grievances to the doors of the church,
here i scream of plagues in the streets, filth in shining skyscrapers,
here i imagine myself cassandra here i prophesy misery
here i staple my grievances to your chest where you cannot brush them off this time.
you licking the doors, trying to taste what's gone, finding splinters in your tongue,
stuck in the braces you had
when you were twelve.
{i curse all metal grow more crooked by the day,
crooked man in a crooked house crooked cat on a crooked fence i can still rip your throat out with crooked teeth} you glisten you glisten you shine
like oil in the pan,
oil dripping from the car,
oil on top of the lake. lover where are the matches the pilot lights gone out again,
burn off the blockage till the heat shines blue.
domestic arson.in the forest you gather tinder,
too damp to burn clean.you smoke us out of our home.
leave it for someone better, stinking like a forest fire.the soundtrack is so loud i cant hear what you say,
im shouting with the strings it all sounds the same when you close your eyes,
smoke-blind you whisper from across the room and ive never hated you more than i do now.
i read your lips i write your words i staple them to the bedroom door i kick in your teeth too fast too fast a reminder that this isn’t pretty, eggs in the throat an exoskeleton too brittle to block the blows.
[me fetal on the kitchen floor me standing with ****** boots]
i count the teeth,
mark them as a symptom.
shedding the physical/shedding teeth.
shedding children from an open mouth.

This life aint'  love song whilst i march on blindly....

Each secretion of dissections interrogations are on...
on my LIVING soul

man ,

if only you knew ,


i slip like a hidden seamstress
into the alcoves of plenty, the catacomb of mind

and sit and wait untill

the seductress is ready -
her lesions
are lessons
learnt in TIME

she is the mistress of the dark
she needs no title but if you prefer you can call her Q.

this is because , yes , not only is she an insane nerd

she is also -

the softest heart i ever ( dang ) - had the chance to grace ,

Mother for those in need ,
Brother to those indeed
Lover to the oh so lucky few ,

Who she might like to point out, are just as glaringly brilliant too...

so , it's simple.

The layers of time are VERY FLEXIBLE
we need not notion ,
to the motions
at futures unclear - well
but see glimpses ..

- of , past's rejuvenation's born again into different actions
conclusions ..0...

the butterfly effect are the ripples : figment metaphor ( metaphysicians apply inside)
of wings - we are all ANGELS of a sort...

but i like to call angels = experts
they seem to know what's what...

2 years of separation
leads to reunions & dissections
of the shared heart we once betrayed
split symmetric down the chamber veins
& drained into a vacant maze
of muscle-coated misdirection:
from a gory war of self-destruction
to a boring morning-long discussion
on the proper functions of affection,
a lecture on the subtle pressure
of stitching missing years together.

so we descended through the memories
of manipulation tendencies
& our blended lungs breathed in relief
at our splendid self-discovery:
you're a different you & i'm no longer me;
thick skin grafts & habit transplants
transformed us to an image abstract
from a former siamese attachment,
our blurry split from commitment
carried independence infinite
& we soared more weightless through the clouds
with our orphaned organs on the ground

As lead pathologist
I witness my own work daily,
I caress thoughts of interest,
And bring them here after their demise.
My latest case, my last victim
Witnessed me lead her body astray,
And now in death, ironic yet,
As to whom her murderer now portrays.
I cover my own work,
Though honesty is the best defense,
I can tell them what the killer did first hand
And give no recompense.
-
They found her body where I left it,
Like I hoped and knew they would
I'd seen her the night before last,
And thought they rightly should.
Admiring my moonlight work
In my routine A.M. garb,
What obscenities now here lurk,
On my table unperturbed.
-
I begin the autopsy
Of my latest thirst to "Be"
I consider cryptically
Of acting empathetically
-
I locate the Toe-Tag first
"Good morning, Miss Who-Gives-A-****,"
She had thought sweet Death had saved her then,
But I am far from finished yet.
Familiar adhesions from tightened rope,
Emblazoned on her skinless wrist,
"What a monster," I laughed to myself,
Up and down, I check my list.
-
Five-foot-five makes a short short bride,
Though marriage is laughable at best.
White female, dark hair, black eyes,
Dilated from light's detest.
Ears were cut, and teeth were filed,
Apparently so she couldn't bite,
Nose, bullhooked, extremities slashed,
The little dove lost the hope of flight.
-
I removed her eyes again,
I had cut them out before and replaced
But twisted around upside down,
The corneas now front faced.
I placed them in the chemical solution,
That they would not rot until,
Donated to some poor *******
That I would again cut into
-
Putting a block under her back,
Her chest ready for the famous cut,
Down the throat and to the stem,
I perfect it without much luck.
Science dictates to remove the organs,
An examination of internals in effect,
Rationally and with much vigor,
I notice her spine so stiff and *****.
I staple her ***** of skin aside,
And begin to break her sternum,
I would speak now maybe a poet's words,
But I neglected to learn them.
A gruesome crack echoes throughout
The vastly supplied room herein,
I look up, am lost for a moment,
"Ah...", I begin again.
-
Testing the leverage of her ribcage,
I separate both sides until,
I feel the pressured solemn rage,
Of her bones snapping in two.
Full access now, I gaze within
At her lungs, her viscera,
I gently lay scalpel to heart,
And mutilate her parenchyma.
I'm carried away, I flick blade across
Her heart over and again,
Until a matrix of slashes on it
Does appear within,
A wretched mistake, my first,
"Not everyone's perfect," I laugh,
No time to quench the thirst,
I must fix it before seen by the staff,
I stitch carefully with translucent thread,
Perhaps this ploy may avail,
I believe I've just made my death-bed
My days now numbered and frail.
-
Quickly, I bag and tag her insides,
And rest them aside my table,
I stitch her chest back together,
And leave when I am able,
I plan to run as far along,
As my time can take me,
Perhaps I will find some more dissections,
Perhaps just to sustain me.

Hell is with us. In our hearts and in our hands.

I don’t know what is in my head, but there are pictures whirling, images dragged up from far away, from places I have never been, and darkness that presses in hungrily to consume the soul of all humanity.
In me there is a foothold. God! In even me a grasping hand able to wield the knife and divide my soul from itself and laugh. To dance around the fire wherein the bones of my victims burn. God, the horror! Flitting shadows, creeping faces, a shuddering crawl because I cannot run.
But of course, if my legs are cut how could I run. There is no hope, but blood and death and horror and laughing faces asking for new dissections.
My body a cocoon of fire around my heart, pulsing out in the open, literally. My chest is torn open, carefully peeled back and my body a spectacle. There is no redemption in this grotesquery. This madness filled with the devils of hell themselves. They gloat over me, reeling drunk upon my destruction and the utter shriveling of the souls who dance around me. I am fighting my own demons not to burst into a million tiny seconds of my life, like shards of glass shatter under too much pressure, a flitting signal in the night like a light snuffed out by wolves. Slavering jowls, moist breath pressed unwilling against cold flesh, and a knife’s blade sliding, gliding through the pathways of my life’s story. Veins emptied of their proper element. Pried open.
"Lay them bear!
Let us see the very soul of you - the inside of those veins. Let us dare to go where no man has ever gone before. To do what no man has ever dared to do. To brave the depths of hell for the satisfaction of knowing that at last we have done something new, something that no one will ever have the bravery, the courage, and dastardly faith to do in a hundred years."
No god was there in that room, only the screaming devils of hell in all the world about us, laughing, laughing at the misery we make for ourselves, the utter torment into which we flee to tear our own souls apart beyond the light of day. There is nothing that we can do to stop them. They are all around us in the night, and in the shadows they are lurking, creeping, whispering. Let them come into your soul, they only want to play a little, gleefully singing the songs of the ******. They are not the ones you have to fear. It is the old devils, the ones who are still insatiably hungry, that you have to worry about. They say they're just here to have fun. But, oh you poor deluded soul, don't you know the fun they call is ******? The messengers they are is death’s own hand, the scythe-wielding master of the times of tombs and all things. By the way, its midnight. Don’t you see the clock? You hear the ticking. They are coming closer, ever closer. Don’t deny it. You know that they are here, it’s true, it’s true. You felt their breath late at night breathing down the back of your neck’s soul.

Hell is with us. In our hearts and in our hands.

i find the children of immigrants born in a foreign land,
learning the inorganic tongue
parallel to the organic compartments
of schizoid conditioning, in the haystack of splinters,
the perpetual contradiction -
the unsure waves without a final
commencing tide -
i find these children the most bothered
to hear the coin flip, two sides  exposed: to be asked
whether the integration process was fulfilled
and the organic tongue was cut off
with the question: in what language
do you think? these children who are
in the cultural poverty of the jihad
who only speak cursor singled out words,
who have to welcome a cultural identity
by relinquishing one of their parents,
who's parents never taught them bilingualism
as an asset rather than a source of complaints,
who would sometimes dearly impress themselves
with inorganic points of view that might
**** their parents - like the cultural cleansing
of long forgotten welsh or gaelic: this among other
signals of a loss of posterity - forced into a smouldering
cauldron of ease, that's hardly at ease -
i find these children the most stunted culturally,
bringing no identity, no pride of distinction
that could empower all of us -
for the best they can bring... is a cookbook;
perhaps the sole reason for the failures of
marcus garvey was precisely that - the ancient
tongue turned numb, then turned to gangrene,
and slid from behind the ivory gates -
there's that: the need for an organic symbiosis
with the origin, but perhaps by then,
the west indies were too appealing to be left
for other settlers - but as all musings go -
there are many unknowns - the ancient tongue
perhaps shed, but the tongue given proved to
be too restrictive in its original guise: for the whip
and the exploitation led to a linguistic rebellion
of creating a unique people-owned dialects,
people were given a phonetic manna - for their
own safeguard, to deviate from all manner of
orthodoxy intended for the education of
"civilised" classes - which only proved the instability
of the english tongue, the existence of phonetic
approximations with beautiful orthography,
but a harrowing due to this beauty by certain
obstructive forces of the perceived tongue silent,
encoded by the 26 digits, inflamed by many laws
of particularised pronunciation: which established
english as an almost universal tongue on earth:
the lingua franca - a language that has no conceptualisation
of exhausting heat of noon and siestas,
of stressful nocturnal living expected for the friday
and the saturday every week, rather than everyday
usual - so if i were to write out all the particularised
pronunciation examples i'd be here all day - if only
but a few evolutionary traits upon inheritance of
the latin alphabet were allowed for the english language,
there'd be less bewilderment at having to excavate
deep into the caves of memory, the echoes shouted
from the depths of these caves would not actually
resonate as echoes do, but would be sharp and distinct:
one of each; or as they say of the y from the tetragrammaton:
the vowel modulator, invokes vowel-morphing:
ply (i)                               as one example
                                          and the first h being the vowel
stabiliser,
                 oh                       poker      
                 eh                       extricate (ex-tree-cate /
tri                                        bi),
and to stress a basis for kabbalah, once all theories
of worded expeditions become exhausted, as either
accomplished or never-to-be accomplished, e.g. utopia,
the only thing remaining to do is to check the limits
with these atoms in simple syllable compounds,
where a safeguard is kabbalah - not so much a mention
of elocution as the intended process of inquiry,
but apart from meaningful prefix syllables like
pre-, pro-, con-, a-, super-, trans-, meta-, ortho- etc.,
i see what optical dissections guide me back into
the realm of meaningful words:
the second h is reserved for laughter, the only
consonant that allows the freedom to laugh, given
laughter has to be expressed by one consonant
and at least 2 vowels, and no other consonant allows this
to happen.

It was a glorious affair in the high school cafeteria  
and my boss said hello to me and I sang along with
the band..."I'm Yours"
And somehow you ended up across from me so here I am
with three men surrounding me when I don't feel that popular
but you have taken a peculiar interest in me like when I can't
count up all the tardies, and you help me out in a meeting
and I fixed the copy machine and you could make a thousand and one
copies of dissections, but there you were again.  
And you found a way to put your dead preserved animal away
because I was upset.  No one would do that for me they just make fun
if I don't like poor dead creatures displayed to children.
The admin supervising over
us like we're a bunch of kids...and there you are with your inquisitive face
and I always thought you were the cutest teacher...but you brushed me off and
brought another woman to my play and I understood except now you
are talking about what I'm doing over break and it's the second time you asked
me and you remember what I said I was doing over the summer, except my
cat died so I didn't finish my script.  And you just have that look.  
When a man is looking into my eyes wondering what it would feel like to
be next to me naked and would I take care of him like his mother did?
And I am wondering if you are a skillful lover and do you snore?
And so maybe we will make plans, or maybe not.  But that was definitely
a love spark, my friend.

macbeth: it was (once) the owl that shrieked,
  the fatal bellman.

aye, and i too would ask the urban folk
concerning family and congregation
for any event apart from the most cherished:
for i love only those with whom i eat,
and abhor those with whom i drink:
for i deem them sour company.

and if in haste? from Canterbury seek New York,
there you'll learn a thing or two about
gnarling from a yew tree strained against
the ranks and rags of French nobility...
there, dear sir, will you learn the Welsh Churchill
acronym, by the index and middle i say:
pointing toward the sky as if to navigate
a seagull pooping fresh manna
onto a desert plain for an *oasis of sustenance.
clearly the U was never chiseled into bone or
marble, instead a V... which always confuses
my expertise (2014 GSCE gimmick,
expert-... ease? titillation? prioritising?
no wonder they send spies to south korea to
feed off jealousy of the porcelain skinned
and squinty eyed crap of Zen... because Tao
was the practice of not dipping your head in
a honey jar and running up to a beehive for
a Frenchy) / in Grecian (yes,
poets have abhorring punctuation,
they're donning a take on rasta roots: dreadlocks
  inserted between the talk of personal hygiene
   and vanity performances of family life solidification
to seem the ideal citizen).
      poetry really is an obscurity of prose,
      it's that ****** cousin you hide in the attic,
when you stage poetry against prose
you never, really, get a snooze button fault
while taking a microcosmos of thought to bed
  and "forget" reading something....
   a true testament to poetry? something Mussolini
might say... i am a fascist fetishist: in that
i am also a schadenfreude: a shadowy frau...
   i like to see fascism in others...
          well, you know, Hollywood got sickly sweet
over the years, there's no enough Bruce Lee films
to satiate the palette of middle aged crimbo men...
  don't expect a ****** to know the cartwheel mechanics
readying a girl into ballet...
       cos no attitude brings no Bolshoi, girlfriend.
oh god, how can this age and my contemporaries provide
so many stereotypes?! they're all gay...
         there's me with my pouting but really alcoholic-bloated
face, rummaging in pop culture under the exacting maxim
of: the idiots have all the confidence, the smart uns
      have all things Cartesian...
             you swarm over reactionary talk?
i guess modern people really want to engage in dialectics,
but the current sophistry, the current rhetoric,
     is only based (in bias) against any Cartesian intervention...
the "i think" doesn't precipitate into "i am"...
for example? even wittle Adoolf thought he was good,
but then world war ii and therefore kicked in,
    there was nothing good to be said, apart from
a historical endeavour as to why: the New Year's Eve
Ball of Vienna faked a smile to solidify a permanent
audience...
                      this fire-yawning rhetoric is part of
the zeitgeist (holy ghost) of our times...
                                it's enough that i'm reading the
news review contained in a sunday newspaper on a tuesday,
but another that i'm rereading lawrence lipton's
the holy barbarians at the same time... yep:
the father of the guy that interviews actors on that
show the actors' studio... where we learn all things
sentimental... just before Robbie Williams tightens
the noose and everyone's bloated...
which is odd: it was a promising afternoon...
           i know that society really wants to engage with
dialectics, i've been watching lemon-*******-sessions'
worth of cringe concerning Milo Yiannopoulos -
papa-dough-pu-louse (Greeks have surnames like
dinosaur names: word and verbiage in one go...
a bit like decapitating Anne Boleyn,
executioner on tiptoe) -
                 it would be far more easier to stage
a place by Shakespeare that it would be to stage a
conversation by Socrates... that's how difficult
practising dialectics is... so much so that people invented
diacritical indicators to syllable dissections of words
and then forgot to use them... buttnaked Adam of Essex.
but one thing caught my eye...
  not in a rude way... well... Bruce Willis in mercury rising...
      isn't the Greek a tad bit autistic?
those darting eyes, and whenever a confrontation emerges
the sunglasses are invoked? isn't the confrontationalist
an autistic phenomenon? isn't this autism?
   aren't people rebelling against the spaz?
   the cover-up is obviously homosexual, because there's this
underlying subplot... high functioning autism,
i might momentarily get an eye-contact...
       but anglophone psychiatrists have only two notations
to curate the spectrum of "mental" problems:
1. biting your nails...
          and 2. eye contact.
                  if psychiatry is philosophy without thinking,
then philosophy is psychiatry without being...
              catchphrase? i hope to god no.
               god... well: that's when you say:
i do have limitations in my vocabulary... hence the invocation
to a ulterior being, other than my self
                 (yes, the reflective version of the reflexive myself).
      sure as hell there needs to be a dualism
rather than a monism concerning the 1 + 1 = 2 humanism
of cogito ergo sum, can you imagine a consolidation?
how, in the 21st century (which wasn't that spectacular
even though the evangelicalists stressed was the zenith
and a basis for: no future) the two would never meet?
    if anyone Descartes poked fun at it too:
i'm pink, therefore i'm spam.
                                       can you imagine why some people
were diagnosed with schism that later referred to a mind?
            uncomfortable people for social cohesion are ill...
it's because the healthy people are whipped into
constructing society.
                               adding to the fact that if mental
and physical converged and were made equally obstructive
in hindering people, a fewer number of jobs / specialisations
would exist to counter such grievances...
      you term mental illness i term lethargy and
thinking turned into the equivalent of what the heart is:
de-automated heart turned into poetic muse...
                but otherwise? an automaton pump.
and when thinking becomes automaton prone...
       and when thinking becomes too conscious of perceiving
the body as caged, doubly in a world and earnestly
in the cycle of eat sleep **** repeat... when too much
theory pours into an abstracting pronoun of forgotten Latin
and resurgent Latin with a summary of ego...
   when that becomes a Shiva-likened extra limb...
               when thought becomes automated
  but the body isn't... when thought diverges from any
moral construct to be made intrinsic in the complement
of choice as its sole outlet,
                 all variations of thought necessarily translated
into a narrative die out... because, as it turns out,
              not all narratives are pharmaceutical escapisms
to the equivalent of medicating seriously...
            even though the sky is blue in winter
and all decaying flush of colour of autumn is long gone...
i feel no bolder to stampede against the earth's
tides insurrecting a name and month of birth
                                      as sanctimonious:
other than what the polity deems worthy for me to
inherit, that, which will be my epitaph
is all am worthy of, given such contortions: as already
evident.
    
take your heart to Scotland my good friar,
and then from on-high,
   as if between Edinburgh and St. Andrew's,
take the kingly route back south...
                    and learn to educate those who's
tongue was never kindred to cliche and barbarism,
were it not talk of puritanism and
    a hidden dialect: for no cockney would have ever
heard the seven bells,
                   and definitely shied away, spoilt,
from the meddling cuckoo;
and oh how small this world will seem,
       once you've been woven the greatest attire
of all you command to peacock,
   that operatic Monday through to Friday
that'll always be more than Gucci or an Armani belt...
    routine!

it’s ok not to live UP to ALL the weighty labels forcefully pinned to you - heck maybe you should just cruise at mid altitude level until you decide you wanna take a dive in the self created oceans....

DON'T STICK YOUR NOSE INTO PEOPLES BUSINESS, JUST KEEP referencing The Matrix. While simultaneously revealing it - more Dharma , less drama is my motto.

Whoever told you , you just had 2 eyes , 2 ears , 2 mouths , 2 noses ? They were lacking vision. Look for yourself.

Ask yourself this also...

have you seen the chambers of your darkest thoughts?
If you have not, why not.

And if you have , how was it?

Expect better than the daily thoughts of dissections and ******

try going beyond to see how evil you really can be....
then ,

try seeing how heavenly you can think...

it's a fine line between tragedy and comedy.

Don't lose your heads now , lovelies ...

no ying without yang as the old'uns would say.

no ying , without yang....

O, God please let me create something
Anything.
I'm bogged down with numbers and chemicals.
I'm coated in formulas and structures.

Dissections.

I've become a pro at tearing things apart.

O please O please let me create something beautiful.
Or ugly.
Let me create something new.
Let me contribute.

Or else, how can I leave my mark?

Approbation pours from one cup to another, STOP
You can cut the line with a word or a motion
Like a knife
It's the social flow
It gets disrupted and it goes

But what about the chemicals we learned about?
The hard science distilled from a million dissections
How does it make you feel
To realize everything is just a mechanism?

Strange.

And yet to be the one driving the machine stirs the same kind of emotion,
Evokes the same sense of dearness that it always has
Because no science can bring up the ultimate root
No exacto knife can extirpate the meaning of everything--

Oh, but it can.
An art was born of the wind,
And every no one knows what it means
We still rustle in the atmosphere,
Ultraviolet and weird
Gathered here in an advanced development
Protruding into the universe like an odd fruit

For now this is what everything meant,
And who knows what else
We work with the same old tools
To get the same old thrills
And we like it,
It makes a sound.

Ill and fleeting imperfections
Lily petaled plant dissections
Action wrought of flawed intention,
Trying to work this broken invention.
Be close to me and I'll give,
You can break me and I'll live,
You can breathe and give me more
Than a reason to be here.
As of now my heart beast solely alone,
One arm strokes my own,
And my skin shivers because
It longs to touch something real.
And feel a life sated in more
Than the endless apathy
It kindly reaches out to lay the seeds.
It needs,
But it does not know how to not flee
From the answer.
Not to flinch into the cancer.
I hope there's a lantern
To guide us to the brightness,
We will see the whiteness
Of the moon,
Maybe someday we'll finally be free.
If that happens
Will you meet me?
Apres moi le deluge
As long as I will just have you.

Watching trees fillet their kernels of the universe
into inverted green dissections,
the crazy killers.  
I at least ignore mine until they scab over and infect
And I develop quite the vicious intellect.

Sometimes I have to wonder if I itch
Because my blood wants to go
God is tired of me loving seasons
He just lit this cherry bomb and waits for it to
Explode

She don't wanna know him
Says that she gets lonely
But she loves the space around her hands
When she stretches out her arms in both directions
She throws away love
Like people do old rugs
She won't need a hug when she could rather dance
With her veins fully attached to a heart with no dissections
She gives herself kisses
Bares herself witness
You don't need a person just to feel emotions
Maybe slightly out of focus but you could have a moment staring at your own reflection

Is one's purpose, only service, the cosmetic to...
   music, books, houses, movies
What thoughts, now reclusive, are in layaway at the poor butchered nightmare?
Freedom implicit, so difficult an issue...
These definitions about one's place,
  they feel atavistic,
  final solution for all.

Try now to imagine lanes, of mobs- only mindframes switching on and off.
Eventually you begin to know to run
from the definitions, what banks of dissections!

All bare the marks of prosecutions, original but far, so far
  not fair from the namaste.

That this passes for what life's about joy and musing
                what standards! The quizzes are about it?

Freer can be the rules
   and all parties involved
   or even the vengeance within, as ourselves,
   until the skeptical attempts to mock- exists the answered to
   community,
   bouts of beers, broken sobriety from gorgeous flirting,
   and a passion that the  community now fears generosity

Dibs on claustrophobic guts, as out hails the facts on one's face.

A place goes to alarm,
  proven 3 grand broken
   as the wrong way goes back
    to the places, beings see their places, realities, implicit firsts
     dearest evinced lifetime!

That Mr. and Mrs. Madrigal now have loquacious
  embarrassments

Take reality and imagine...

Free no neuropsyonic  crisscross, no forms,
no need for evasive empirical blocks

And identify the scope of actions,
thou shalt enact the paths eclectic
  insipid divine euphoria
  is astute for epiphany for
  personal freedoms